


The Pessimistic optimist

by JustKatze



Category: Original Work
Genre: Abuse, Addiction, Depression, F/F, Mental Illness, Multi, Romance, Sexual, Slow Burn, Smut, Suicide, lgbtq+, this story can be very triggering, trigger warning, wlw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:34:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27973785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustKatze/pseuds/JustKatze
Summary: Rowan is a 22 year old woman living in a shitty, shabby town with shitty, shabby people.Working a minimum wage job, juggling what life throws at her and fighting off past demons.She's not the good guy in this story.Cliché enough, she meets someone who becomes an unlikely lover. Someone she feels at home with.This story doesn't have a happy ending. Sometimes life as-well doesn't have a happy ending.





	The Pessimistic optimist

**Author's Note:**

> ||This was written during a insomnia induced craze. I apologize for grammatical errors, as it was all finished in one night. More is to come. Please leave feed back! I appreciate the read! I promise, it will be more detailed in the future. This is just my sloppy writing for now. I quite liked how this story was going, so I decided fuck it- I should finally publish some of my work.||

Its funny how fast life unfurls. 

  
  


I never thought id end up this way. 

Malnourished. Sleep deprived. Beaten and bruised. Addicted. 

I never wanted this for myself. When I was a young girl, I never once said to myself "Man. I cannot wait to grow up to be a low life."

But thats unfortunately how I ended up. Absolutely comedic. Undeniably laughable. 

I sit here in my lawn chair on my back porch, a vodka bottle in one hand, a cig in the other, and I watch the shadows of my neighbors dance across shut curtains of their own back doors. If I look hard enough- If I can manage to squint my glossed over eyes- I can see how better off they are than I am. 

Little windows lit with life. Smiles. Bright eyes. Everyone here seems so happy. 

As an adult, you have two choices: 

Be successful 

or fake it. 

  
  


I'm not successful, but I don't fake it. I think I make it blatantly obvious. 

I mean, fuck. Everyone can see it. Or maybe they can't. 

I've always been good at hiding myself. 

A chameleon, if you will. 

Masking myself. Changing my colors to blend in with everyone else around me. 

I ended up finishing my cigarette and calling it a night. Flicking my snuffed out cigarette butt over the balcony and heading back inside. 

I locked my back door. Not that I really need to. Who the fuck would climb to the second floor? Even if they managed to break in, all they'd see is my empty living room and my lame bedroom that consisted of a mattress on the floor, dirty clothes laid a strewn everywhere, beer bottles that served as castle walls around said bed, and my dingy ass small flatscreen and beat up ps4. 

Shit, I feel like the robber would take pity, if anything. 

It was a pathetic setup. But it served its purpose. 

I enter my kitchen, open my partially empty fridge-- minus the 3 month old eggs, half empty carton of milk and my treasured mint condition pizza box and grab a slice. 

I slam it shut with my hip and throw the slice in the microwave, grabbing a paper plate. 

I wait for that mystical 'Ding!' every cheap shit box microwave chimes to alert me that my rather heart palpation inducing pizza was finished and snag it from its glass plate-- burning my fingers in the process. 

I let out an exasperated 'fuck' and suck my fingers. 

The pizza grease is sucked up by my paper plate companion before I diligently transport my royal feast to my castle of beer bottles. 

I kneel down and crawl into my bed and munch, turning on the TV to watch something that wouldn't make me hate living more than I do like the news would- and continue feasting upon my hunt. 

This is the American dream, baby. Get used to it. 

Y'know. For working 40 hour weeks for minimum wage, you'd assume id make enough to afford something cozier. You're dead fucking wrong. (Unfortunately).

This land of the free bleeds their work force dry. Sucking every last bit of life out of you, run you through the mill and then wring you out till you're a flesh husk. 

Thats where i'm at right now. I'm but a cog in the machine. Left to her own devices. 

And I choice alcohol and cheap, box pizza as vices. 

This WAS my happy place. 

Dull and lifeless. It was just as I was. 

I found comfort in my tiny, empty apartment. Messy. Dirty even. But it was home. 

I was counting down the days till I got my medication again, or, those fun little red grippy socks. Whatever came first. 

  
  
  


If I looked at my life with a broad lense, I would have to say I was at least satisfied. I was able to afford rent, cable, wifi, and some food. Alcohol. Pills. Weed. The essentials. I didn't have room to complain- but bet your ass I stretch that bitch to make space in order to. 

'You shouldn't be satisfied. You're sick, you need help. You're living like a rodent.' 

Yea. You're right. But to me? I was living like a millionaire. This is the first time in my entire life that I felt stable-- in the sense that I knew I had a roof over my head, a job and money. 

I didn't have that when I was younger. I was lucky to even have a mother who loved me. 

Mom. 

Mom... 

The greatest women to have ever roamed earth. My beacon of hope. 

That woman sacrificed everything and more for me. I wouldn't be here had it not been for my mother. Infact, shes the only reason I find myself still breathing. 

You see, dad wasn't always there for us. When he was, it wasn't for long. When he was- it was to drop off three tv dinners and abuse us. He'd take out all his anger on Ma, and of course, being the eldest, I would always stick myself between them. 

It landed me in a lot of harm. I would fight off a 200 pound man as a 100 pound little girl to protect my mother. 

And I wouldn't want it any other way. Because as long as I was taking the damage- she wasn't. 

It got to the point where I gotten so good at fighting him back- that I actually landed him in the hospital. I went to juvy for that one. 

Naturally, CPS didn't believe me or my mother. My dad was a really good manipulator. The way this man would twirl and twist his tongue to fill these caseworkers ears with honey and sugar was enough to get him an oscar for acting. 

I hate him. 

  
  
  
  


My phone vibrated and I was quick to answer. 

"How's my baby?" 

My mother messaged me. 

I placed down my half eaten pizza and quickly got to replying. 

"I'm doing great." 

No I wasn't. 

"I paid all my bills in full and was able to get a shit ton of groceries for this month." 

Lie. 

"Thats amazing! I missy you! Sleep well, sweet heart. Let me know how your work is going."

  
  


I lingered over that message for abit before replying. 

"I will, Ma. Love you tons, sleep well and don't forget to take your meds. Let me know how the docs go tomorrow. You need to keep up on your health." 

  
  


it was true. My mother had a slew of health conditions ontop of everything she went through in her life. 

Life has a funny way of unfurling. 

Fucking over only the kindest of hearts. 

Stealing the life out of angelic mothers and killing their daughters. 

  
  


"I will, sweetie. Stop worrying about me, thats my job. Goodnight, mwah!"

She'd respond, send four heart emojis in rapid succession- making my phone vibrate like a rabid hex bug. 

"Love you, goodnight! Mwah!" 

I sent 5 back. 

'Stop worrying about me, thats my job.' 

How couldn't I? 

The woman who gave me life, sheltered me from hatred deserved every ounce of my love. Every fiber of my being. I grew up only ever knowing how to shelter and protect as she did for me. 

Who was I if not a caregiver? 

  
  
  


It kills someone slowly, however. 

You end up caring for the wrong people. 

You can only bend so far till you break. 

You can only give so much until they take everything. 

But my whole life was built around giving, and if I can't give anymore than what? 

Stuck. 

I'm stuck. 

Sooner or later i'm going to have to come to terms with that. 

But I refuse to. 

I guess its my own fault i'm like this. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


Morning - Post office - 

  
  


I wake up early enough to take a desperately needed shower and brew myself a cup of cheap coffee. 

Truly, a delicacy. 

I dump a shot-- two... actually two shots- of vodka in my tumbler with my coffee- shake, and then throw my leather jacket on. 

I snatch my keys, wave bye to my sleep paralysis demon, and leave my apartment. 

I lock my front door. 

Once. 

No, twice. 

Because if I don't lock it the second time, i'll let someone in and they'll end up kill me or something. 

I walk down my stairs, wave lamely to the neighbor walking their dog and then I proceed to press the unlock button for my car twice. I get in. Do the whole little twisty mechanic, start the shit box, and then I back up- nearly run over the curb, turn right, and exit the parking lot. 

success. 

I turn on the radio. 

Punch it. 

Bam. The 70's rock station blasts. 

I exit my little apartment complex and get on the road. 

I take hefty sips from my drink and tap my hands on the wheel, humming out of tone to myself to the breeze of the music and wait for the red light to turn that sexy shade of green. 

Please turn fucking green. 

This town was notorious for being shabby and out dated. Also- these traffic lights run on snail time. 

Finally it turns green and I start my ten minute trek down to the local post office to grab whatever mail I had. 

  
  
  


\- Post office - 12:22 PM - 

  
  


"Rowan?"

"That's me,"

I push my shades ontop of my head, showing my palm in a half assed wave as my lips pulled to a shit take of a smirk. 

The post office lady smiled back, putting my large package on the counter. 

"Here ya are. Heavy. Get yourself some new computer parts?"

"Nah. Mama bear sent something. It was my birthday afew days ago."

"Oh!"

The post office lady gasp, clasping her hands together. 

Please don't. 

"Happy late birthday, Ray jay!" 

Gods. I don't know why she calls me Ray Jay, or how its even synonymous with Rowan in her head- but she did. She does. It's annoying and pretentious. 

I cough a laugh and give a forced chuckle. 

"Thank ya. I'll be getting out of your hair-"

"Wait! Did you do anything for your bday? Party?"

We were barely acquaintances. Let alone close enough for this type of conversation. She only knows me because of how often I get my mail. 

"Uhh... yeeaaa..."

I stammer, slipping up. 

  
  


She pouts. Like a disappointed puppy. 

"Awe.. maybe we can do something together!"

No. 

"Actually, I can't.. unfortunately."

"How come?" 

"You're pushy today, haha, but I have work."

  
  


"We can work around that!" 

I grind my teeth together, my arms wrapped around my box with an iron grip. 

"Listen... Viv, I can't. I'm sorry. I appreciate it, though. I do." 

  
  


The atmosphere seemed to fall. 

A weighted blanket knitted with pain fell on me as I watched her luminescent face turn grey. Her hands, once clasped together, started to fall. 

She still kept a slight smile. 

"I.. oh alr-"

"But i'll see what I can do, ok? I need a night out. I bet you do too! Little worker bee." 

If I put any more pressure on my teeth- they'd probably shatter. 

I hated how easily I was ailed by others emotions. 

But Viv was a sweet girl. I was just a heartless bitch. 

"Yay! Ok-- does Friday work? This Friday? I can give you my number-"

"I already have it. You gave it to me last christmas for the roast party you had." 

"Oh, yea! Just text me."

"Will do, I gotta go. I'll see if I have Friday off."

I never work Friday's or weekends. 

  
  


I picked up my box and left, feeling her eyes watch me from behind. 

  
  


Viv and I had what i'd call and entry friendship. We weren't friends, but we weren't enemies. She just knew me and I knew her. 

Viv is easily excitable and always so sickly cheery. She was so sugary sweet it made me sick. She had everything. Two loving parents, a large modern home, a SILVER fridge and her microwave didn't touch the counter. She was living life. 

She only works the post office because her parents owned it. They owned a-lot in the town. 

My disdain for her was most likely jealousy, but i'd never admit it. 

She was happy and I wasn't. She was living and I was just surviving. 

  
  
  
  


\-- Home -- 1:02 -- 

  
  


I open my box with my trusty box cutter and unveil a few shirts and pants. 

All brand new. 

A letter from mom along with my old laptop that was heavily bubble wrapped. 

Mom. She had a thing for bubble wrap. She use to buy rolls of it to pop when she was feeling down or to relax. To have so much of her bubble wrap meant she must really love me. 

"Sick"

I say outloud to myself, turning my old gaming laptop in my hands, blowing a few furs off of it. 

I set it down on my lap as I pulled out the sweater she also gave me. 

It was my old band sweater from when I was younger and wanted to become a guitarist. I had my own band. My own merch. 

It flopped, obviously. My dad broke my bass guitar in a bout of anger. 

I cringed at the name. Generic deathcore lettering spelled out "Blut Rosen" 

Blood rose. 

It was suppose to be 'Bleeding roses' but the company fucked up the translation, despite many emails of me telling them what the translation was. 

I transported all my treasures to my room, quickly putting my sweater on and taking a pic for my mom. 

"Thank you, ma!"

She'd respond back afew minutes later. 

"You're welcome! How's Viv?"

I'd groan. 

"She's good."

My mom has met Viv during Viv's roast party. Mom forced me to go. Of course, Viv forced herself to meet my mom and they hit it off well. 

Its why I avoid Viv so much. She knows my mom. She could tell her if I wasn't well. Which I wasn't. 

The last thing my mother needs to know is about my health. 

"Do you guys hang out anymore? I like Viv. She'd be good for you." 

"She invited me out for my bday this friday. Viv can be annoying." 

"Viv is a lover. You need to go out more, Ro."

"Thats why I said I would." 

Now I have to. 

  
  


I throw my phone down and change out of my pants and dust off my boxers. 

I lay on my bed and continue texting my mom. 

  
  
  


I hover my thumb over my contacts app before finally clicking it. 

I scroll down to the contact listed as 

'.'

and shoot a text. 

"Heya. It's Rowan." 

Immediately. A ding. 

"Hey! We good for Friday?" 

"Yep, what are you doing exactly?" 

"Movies maybe.. dinner.. party?" 

I bite my lip, chewing at my chapped dead skin. 

"Sounds good. How big of a party?"

"I can invite some of my friends, they'd bring you gifts. They're amazing people and i'd love for you to meet them! Any drinks you like?" 

I grumble. 

"Uhh.. vodka, fruity drinks? I don't know." 

"Will do! Unless you want it to be just us? Its up to you. It's your party! I'm just your little hostess!" 

I ponder on it for a moment. 

Maybe its best I get to know Viv more before I meet her friends. 

"Probably best if its just us. Girls night?"

"Girls night!"

Ew. 

I wasn't getting my nails done. They're basically non-existent. I chew them fuckers off. 

"Great. Looking forward to it, Viv. Thank you."

"Anytime, Ray Jay!" 

I cringe to myself and shut my phone off. 

I got back to configuring my laptop to my tastes, powering it on. 

Pass code screen. 

Shit, maybe I didn't reset it after all these years. 

I get a little excited. If I can crack my pass code, I can access a little time capsule of what little Rowan did. 

Short term memory has some uses. It's always fun to play russian roulette with my old items. 

"Uhh... 2288" 

I put in. 

Incorrect. 

There goes my favorite numbers. 

"2222"

Incorrect. 

No shit, thats too easy of a password. 

Deedee22 

Incorrect 

Not even my old cats name was safe. 

Time to get vulgar. Think angsty, edgy, Rowan. 

Pussy22

Incorrect 

Pussy2288

Incorrect 

My favorite thing paired with my favorite numbers didn't even do the trick. Disappointed in you, little Rowan. 

Greenday2288

Bingo! 

Holy shit. 

I was greeted by my Hatsune Miku wallpaper littered with games and two miscellaneous folders. 

Obviously, my first idea was the browse history. 

"How to tame feral kittens" 

I chuckle. Thats how I got DeeDee. She was a feral kitten. That search definitely benefitted me. 

"Big words to use in writing"

Also beneficial. 

"Essay helper"

Big helper. 

I scrolled more towards the bottom. 

My stomach begun to slowly rise into my throat. 

"Painless ways to die" 

"How many mgs of escitalphram kill you?"

"Swallowed 30 escitalo pills, will I die?" 

I grind my teeth and hover over the 'clear history' bar. 

But then I discover the probable cause. 

"How to runaway" 

"Homophobic dad tips"

"Platonic meaning"

"Are girls allowed to like girls?" 

"How to know you're a lesbian" 

Depressing. 

My dad found out about my sexuality a long time ago. He told me it was just platonic emotions and that gays were dirty and disgusting. He called it a disease. 

I went through a-lot of internalized homophobia and misogyny as a child. It tore me apart at the seams. If i'm proud of one thing- it was that I embraced myself. I hid it well, though. Although.. the means of doing so were.. not healthy. 

I cleared my history after vetting it all. The rest was pretty harmless and typical for a 12-14 year old girl. 

I browsed through my computer some more- finding discarded suicide notes, hate notes, unsent love letters, original stories and role play partner chat logs in my private folders- but beyond all that- I didn't find anything else. 

It pained me to watch myself click 'Factory reset' but I managed to get over the past.. materialistically, anyways. 

In a way- watching everything get wiped made me feel relieved.. like I was discarding the darkest depths of my past. I was, in a way. The memories would linger- but the evidence was gone. It hurt to let go. But it quickly healed over. 

I'm sorry, Rowan. 

Girls can like girls. Girls can love girls. Girls can marry girls. 

Feral kittens CAN be tamed. 

No, you won't die from a bottle of escitalophram. It'll just make you vomit. Alot. And scare your mother. And land you in the ward. But hey. Fuzzy socks. 

Homophobic dad tip number 1: Go behind his back and fuck his high school crushes daughter. 

Homophobic dad tip number 2: Kick his ass. 

You succeeded... that a girl. 

  
  


And no, don't run away. It won't solve anything. It never does. It would've put in you in a-lot of danger. Thank you for remembering deedee and ma. They needed you. 

  
  


I smiled to myself and closed my eyes. 

I laid back in my bed. 

I was safe. Isn't that a good thing? Maybe not happy. But I was saf-

"Hello! I'm Cortana, your personal assistant! Lets get sta"

"WHAT THE FUCK" 

I sit up so fast I get nauseous. 

I quickly start pressing buttons as Cuntana keeps going on her spiel, finally shutting the robotic bitch up. 

Time to set up my computer. 

\-- 2:22 AM-- 

I finally shut my computer down for the night, satisfied with all the optimization I did. I was a stickler for benchmarking my computers and especially test running them. I wanted efficiency. 

I shoot a text to Viv, 

"Wait, what time? 2 PM work for you?" 

It was 2 fucking AM. She probably wouldn't respond. 

I place my laptop to my left, pushing away beer bottles as I placed it on my carpet. I finally laid down and browsed through social media. 

buzzz~ 

"Yea! Go to bed,"

I squint my eyes and tap the notification. 

"On it. You too." 

Why the fuck was she up so late? 

I put on some rain sounds to fall asleep to and toss and turn for a good 40 minutes, wallowing in intrusive thoughts and embarrassing memories before my embarrassment finally knocks me out. 

  
  
  


\-- 12 PM -- Friday -- 

(To be continued)

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



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